


Things That Break

by Nestra



Series: Creator's Favorites [23]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: 5 Things, Aliens, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Disaster Michael Guerin, Canon Bisexual Character, Canon Gay Character, Canon Queer Relationship, Caulfield, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Maria DeLuca is a badass and I will hear nothing said against her, Michael Guerin's secret pibble heart, Post-Season/Series 01 Finale, Psychological Trauma, attempts at adult conversation, boy do they both need therapy, no S2 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:34:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23077108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nestra/pseuds/Nestra
Summary: Sometimes things have to break before they can be made whole.
Relationships: Maria DeLuca/Michael Guerin, Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Series: Creator's Favorites [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1073937
Comments: 58
Kudos: 179





	1. a hand

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, it's my post-S1 story! I don't believe in rushing these things, obviously. I believe in waiting until the last minute, then using the pressure of a deadline to make me finish.
> 
> Thanks to grit kitty and shrift for beta and their thoughts about Michael Guerin, professional woobie.
> 
> Story is complete and all parts will be posted by Sunday.

As far as Michael is concerned, the competition for the alien with the most complicated love life is now a three-way tie.

Isobel, still mourning her dead husband, or the idea of her dead husband, who'd turned out to be an alien serial killer.

Max, who'd blitzed that serial killer (who had murdered his girlfriend's sister) and still probably wanted to tell Liz that her dead sister's burned body was in a pod in a random cave.

And Michael, who'd managed to fall in love with the son of the man responsible for torturing and killing the family he never knew he had. And who now has to figure out a way to explain his magically perfect hand, because Max couldn't keep his healing powers in his pants.

Tequila, Michael thinks. Tequila will solve this problem. But Maria is the keeper of the tequila, and right now, Maria is not in the mood to dispense any drinks.

"You went...to a doctor. Who fixed your hand." Her voice doesn't convey the kind of belief he was hoping for. He should have been smart and figured out a more plausible story before showing anyone his newly unscarred hand. But he'd wanted to see her, to reach out for something good and uncomplicated, something untouched by all the danger and death and violence.

He also hasn't slept in at least twenty-four hours, and he's been knocked out twice, so maybe he's not at his sharpest.

"Yeah," he says, trying to tough it out. "It's amazing what medical technology can do these days."

"Guerin," she says, fixing a glare on him. "Don't try and bullshit me. I'm supposed to believe you, what? Drove to Albuquerque or El Paso and had orthopedic and plastic surgery sometime between now and the last time I saw you?"

"Look," he says. "I can't really explain it, okay? But it's a good thing."

They're sitting side by side on barstools, and he leans in to kiss her again. She smells sweet, like something light and flowery, and he pushes his hand into her hair to feel the softness of it between his fingers.

She's smiling as she pulls back, but refuses to be distracted. "Whatever it is, you can tell me."

"I know," Michael says. And he does. If anyone's tough enough to handle this whole fucked-up situation, it's Maria. He just has to talk to Max and Isobel first and clear it with them. "I can't right now. There's some stuff going on."

Her smile dims. "Stuff with you and Alex?"

"No." Shit, Alex. He'd told Alex to come back tomorrow and talk, and tomorrow was today. "I mean, yeah, but not that."

"I don't know if I can do this to him," she says, leaning back, her arms coming up to wrap around herself. "He's one of my best friends, and he's been hung up on you for years."

"The thing with Alex was a long time ago." Mostly. Two minutes ago she was kissing him, and now he's on the defensive with everything she asks. This isn't going how he wanted it to go. Maybe he should just tell her about aliens, so they can stop talking about Alex.

He gently unwraps her arms, takes her hands in his, and tries to project the sincerity that he actually feels for once. "I'm here. I want to be with you. Things with Alex were...just a disaster, every time we tried. I like you. You like me. Nice and simple. And you own this bar, which is a big plus for me."

His attempt at humor doesn't go over well. She pulls her hands away. "Is that supposed to be some kind of compliment? That I'm simple?"

"No, you're not simple." He huffs and scrubs at his head, hoping to jump-start his brain. "You know I didn't say that. I just meant—"

"You meant that I'm the easy option." The scary thing is, she doesn't even look mad. She looks serious, and a little disappointed, which is way worse than mad.

He tries again. "Things are really complicated for me right now."

"Things are complicated for everyone, Guerin. You can't use that as an excuse to skip right to the sex."

Deep breaths. There's got to be some way he can make her understand. "Look, I—I really like you."

She surprises him then, kissing his cheek. "I know. I like you too. Don't tell anyone I said that."

"I want to give this a try. Maybe it works. Maybe it doesn't." He shrugs. "Maybe we end up wanting to strangle each other, which leaves us no worse off than before."

"Maybe," she repeats skeptically.

"Which one?" he teases.

She smiles that sweet, tentative smile he's almost never seen on her, and leans forward to kiss him again.

Two things happen before they can touch. A powerful feeling of wrongness slams into him, worse than anything he's ever felt. Waves of nauseating pain, noise and blinding color so overwhelming that he can't even parse it at first; he just doubles over in psychic agony and clutches at the bar to stop himself sliding off the stool.

And Maria's phone, lying on the bar, vibrates. 

"Guerin, what the hell? What's wrong?"

He waves her off, unable to speak around the combined agony and panic. Her phone silences for a moment, then chimes with a text. She takes a quick look at the screen as it flashes. 

"It's Liz. She says it's an emergency."

He takes a deep breath and manages to find his voice. "Call her, find out what's wrong." Whatever Liz's emergency is, he's betting it's tied to whatever's setting off his alien alarm.

When Liz answers the call, she's talking too fast for him to understand what she's saying to Maria, but the panic in her voice comes through clearly.

"Max?" Maria says into the phone. "What about Max?"

Shit, Michael thinks. What the hell has Max done now? Amped up on all that power, not thinking clearly. Hopefully he's not standing in the middle of town, calling lightning down from the sky again.

Maria puts her hand over the phone's mic. "Liz isn't making any sense. She said something about Rosa?"

Of course. Of course he couldn't leave it alone. Max and his goddamn hero complex. But the stabbing pain in his gut doesn't make it seem like a good sign. He must have done something stupid and put himself in danger.

"What did Max do?" He's already making plans: gun's in the truck, fortunately, and he can call Isobel on the way, maybe swing by to pick her up if she hasn't already left for wherever Max is...

Maria tunes back in to the torrent of words coming from the phone, and her eyes widen in disbelief. "She says he's dead."


	2. a heart

He goes blank when he sees the bulky body lying on the dirt floor. Everything's dark. He knows people are talking, but he can't hear anything.

It just isn't possible. No. Not after what happened at—no. No. Not again. It can't. He can't.

Someone puts a hand on his shoulder. Is it Liz? He can't remember who else is there. Maria, right? Maria drove him there, so he must have managed to give her directions. Maybe she's the one trying to comfort him.

He's on his knees next to the body. Someone is shouting.

"Michael, goddamnit, give me your hand!"

Next to him. Isobel. "What?"

"We need to heal him!"

"You can bring him back?" Liz is on Michael's other side, her voice so desperate that she hardly sounds like herself. He's never seen her at a loss. Liz always has a plan, a tactic, an idea.

"I don't know, but we have to try! Michael!"

There's a sharp pain in his hand. Isobel's grabbed it and is holding it so tightly her nails dig into his skin.

He can't. There's nothing left. But Isobel holds her other hand over Max's chest, and a glow starts to outline her fingers. And she pulls on Michael—not his hand, but somewhere inside him, where the power lives. It doesn't feel like using his telekinesis. He can feel it flowing through him to Isobel, like he's become a tributary to her river.

Isobel, her hand and her iron will, refusing to let Max go.

He can't let her do this alone.

He puts his hand on top of hers and pushes, psychically, as hard as he can. He doesn't know what the hell he's doing, and maybe Isobel doesn't either, but he closes his eyes and shuts out everything. Everything around him, everything that's happened over the last day, the last year, the last ten years.

He gives her everything, scrapes out the most remote corners of his soul, and offers it up to save his brother.

When it's over, he slumps sideways, only saved from hitting the ground by Liz next to him. He doesn't think he can stand, not even sure he can remain conscious, but he's breathing.

And so is Max.

*

There are too many fucking people in this cave. When he can take in what's going on, it's not just Iz and Maria and Liz and fucking Rosa—Kyle Valenti is there too. Liz must have called him.

It seems brighter than it was before, something more than the sunlight seeping into the tunnel, and the light from Noah's pod and his creepy Rosa altar.

There's a second pod now. He squints to force his eyes to focus, and there's Max, safely cocooned in one of them. He looks closer to death than sleep. The stasis should sustain him, Michael knows that. It had kept Isobel alive when she was minutes from death. But after a moment, he has to look away.

"Where'd the pod come from?" he asks of no one in particular.

Isobel answers him. She's sitting next to him on the ground. "Kyle picked it up. Since Noah's pod is damaged, Liz thought it was probably better to bring one of ours here."

Liz is a force of nature. Even with the double whammy of Rosa's resurrection and Max's death, she managed to bring together everybody and everything needed to save Max. 

"Is he—?"

Isobel shrugs. "He's alive. Or not dead. I'm not sure if they're the same thing. But I knew when he was gone." The dark circles under her eyes look like bruises. She's been through hell the last couple of days, same as he has. He's not gonna try and add it up, see who suffered more—whether it's worse to lose the mother you never knew or find out you never knew your husband.

He looks around the cave. Maria has her arms around Rosa, and they're both crying, so he's probably safe from the 'oh yeah, I'm an alien' conversation. At least for the moment.

Isobel puts her hand on his arm and squeezes, making sure he's not going to fall over when she gets up. He nods just a little bit, because that's as much as he can manage. They all start talking—Iz and Valenti and Maria and Liz. Liz wants to take Rosa to Isobel's, because she isn't ready to explain things to her father, and Maria's going with them. 

And hey, Iz has plenty of empty space at her house now. 

"Michael," Isobel says, "are you coming with us?"

"No." He just wants to go home. He wants the tiny space of his trailer, where he can lock the door and nothing else will get inside or go wrong or demand his attention.

"I can take him to his trailer," Valenti says. "Leave his truck out here, and we'll figure out a way to pick it up later."

Michael's barely conscious on the ride back, so while he normally might be bothered about accepting a ride home from Valenti, he just doesn't give a shit. But then they pull up to his trailer, and he realizes—again—that he's fucked up. Again.

Alex rises stiffly from his chair outside the trailer and comes over to the SUV.

"Guerin? What the hell happened?" He opens the passenger-side door and tries to help Michael out, but Michael can't stand to have Alex touch him right now. He pulls away, and Alex backs off, leaving him room to climb out.

"You tell him." Michael waves a hand at Valenti and heads into the trailer to collapse on his bed. He can't even think any more. It's too much, finally. It's all broken him.

But the universe still can't leave him the fuck alone, because as soon as he hears Valenti's BMW pull away, the door rattles and Alex charges inside to find him. Forgot to lock the fucking thing. Alex probably would have broken in anyway.

"Are you okay?"

"No," he says. There's no emotion in his voice, just like there's nothing in him. He's flat on his stomach, face turned to the ugly wallpaper. He hopes his eyes close soon.

"Have you even slept?" Alex sounds worried. His concern hurts, and it's the worst possible time for it.

"Got knocked out twice, if that counts."

"Jesus," Alex says. "I don't understand. Noah got loose, and then Max killed him? And...Rosa's alive? And Max died? But you and Isobel resurrected him? Like...literally brought him back to life?"

Those are the important points. Michael doesn't have anything to add.

"Michael?" Alex sits on the bed next to him and places a hand on his shoulder. "Is that where you were all this time?"

"No. I was at the Pony with Maria." No more secrets, right? Secrets only get people killed. Secrets ruin your life, poison your relationships, never let you do anything without careful calculation of the risks involved. And when you take a chance, you get screwed.

Alex's hand isn't on his shoulder anymore. "With Maria."

It's not a question, so Michael doesn't need to give him an answer.

"Okay," Alex says, and that's it. He closes the door behind him when he leaves.


	3. a promise

He stands outside the cabin for a good ten minutes, knowing that Alex almost certainly heard him drive up. Hell, he's probably got cameras installed all over the place so he can see who's coming. And Michael doesn't blame him. If he was Alex, had Alex's shitty family, he'd be paranoid and constantly on guard.

But if Alex knows he's there, he doesn't make it any easier by opening the door. Michael has to do it. He has to take those last steps and knock three times and wait for the sound of Alex approaching.

"Guerin." Alex says nothing else.

He wasn't going to do this. He fucking swore to himself that he wasn't going to do this. They'd finally made—not a clean break, maybe the ugliest break possible, but it was done. The last thing he wanted to do was take a knife and dig into that scar.

But it's been sixty-three days, and Max is still in the pod.

"Can I come in?"

Alex stares at him for a second more, then stands aside and makes space for Michael to walk past. He heads to the couch, and Alex sits in the chair next to it, by the fireplace. He folds his hands and props them on his knees, his weight perched on the edge of the chair, like he wants to be ready to stand and walk away at any moment.

Michael doesn't miss the quick look Alex shoots at his left hand. Obviously Alex had heard about it from Liz or Maria. Michael probably should have been the one to tell him, but that's just another missed opportunity.

He tries to figure out the best way to start. "Liz told you about everything she's tried with Max?"

Alex nods, giving nothing away. His eyes are dark in the cabin's dim interior.

"It's not working. His organs—any time we try to bring him out of the pod, everything just shuts down. It's not exactly the same thing that happened to Isobel, but it's close. Liz has tested all these variations on the antidote, we've tried developing something new, Isobel and I took apart Noah's pod to try and figure out how they work. Nothing."

"I'm sorry."

It's probably true. Alex never had any problem with Max, and he's still close with Liz. Alex and Maria have even managed to remain friends, though Michael doesn't know how. Any mention of Alex is strictly out-of-bounds between him and Maria.

"You took all that shit from Caulfield," Michael continues. "Data, records. They had decades to experiment on them." He has to stop and take a breath. Even so, the windows rattle in their frames for a second before he clamps down on his powers. "There's got to be something in there that can help."

"I already checked."

"You did?"

Alex nods carefully. His every word and movement is locked down, emotionless as possible. "I went through all of that material after—after it blew up. They recorded anything about using alien powers or tech as weaponry, but Project Shepherd wasn't real interested in healing them."

"No." This was his last idea. His last hope.

"I'm telling you the truth."

He agrees, even as he's shaking his head. "No, I know. I know you are. But you're not a doctor, and you're not one of us. There must be something else, something that you missed."

"Yeah, maybe," Alex says on a sigh, after he takes a moment to consider. "What do you need?"

*

Michael far prefers his own bunker to the former home of Project Shepherd. Way too many cameras and solid doors and heavy locks. Even with Jesse Manes safely locked up far away, the whole place reeks of hatred and fear.

Liz and Valenti peel off to go through the medical records, leaving Michael and Alex parked in front of the bank of monitors while Alex hunts through files and video footage.

Fuck his life.

He would rather crawl on hands and knees over broken glass than watch a second of the experiments they performed on the prisoners at Caulfield, but there's nothing he won't do to help Max, so he pulls up a chair next to Alex.

Alex punches a few keys and opens another video. "I'm going through footage of individual prisoners and their powers. N-38 caused Jim Valenti's brain tumor, presumably by emitting targeted radiation. Maybe there were other prisoners with healing powers like Max."

His eyes burn as he makes himself look at the screen. Alex has the file playing double speed, so at least it only takes half the time to watch soldiers shove aliens around with cattle prods. But as determined as he is, he can only watch a few seconds at a time before he has to turn away. Even so, the piecemeal picture he gets makes him sick to his stomach.

Miles away. Miles away, for twenty years.

Alex doesn't push him, just keeps opening spreadsheets and files, occasionally typing some notes on footage he wants to examine in more detail.

"What about this one?" he asks.

Michael forces his eyes to focus. In the cell, one prisoner kneels over another lying on a bench, hand pressed to their chest. It's hard to tell with the black-and-white footage, but the kneeling prisoner's hand might be glowing.

"That's pretty close to what it looks like when Max does it."

"Hey," Alex calls to Liz and Valenti, "see what you can find in the records for prisoner K-32."

Instead of returning to the keyboard, Alex swivels to face Michael. "Have you even dealt with what happened at Caulfield?"

Michael gestures around them, a little taken aback by the abrupt subject change. "My brother-in-law was a serial killer, and then my brother died. I've been kinda busy."

Alex opens his mouth to reply, then stops himself for a second. His brows draw together, and Michael recognizes his thinking face. He's plotting out what to say and how to say it. "I know I am probably the last person who should be giving advice about this. About anything. But you can't just let it fester inside of you. It'll eat you up like a cancer, and it'll kill you in the end."

"Great," Michael snaps. "You got a recommendation for a therapist who knows about aliens and takes cash?"

Alex laughs bitterly. Unfortunately, Michael recognizes that expression too. "I wish I did," he replies. "God knows I could use one. But have you told Isobel about what happened? Or Liz?"

"They are dealing with enough shit right now." Michael says, fighting the urge to raise his voice and distract the doctors.

"You're dealing with it too, Guerin, and I bet you're putting up a front for Isobel so she doesn't have to worry about you."

"She doesn't have to worry about me," Michael insists. The absolute last thing he's going to do is dump more shit on his sister. Purple circles under her eyes, tremors in her hands—he has a feeling she's not getting much sleep. He hasn't resorted to checking her trash for empty acetone bottles. Yet.

Alex shakes his head. "Do you ever let anyone in far enough to know what's really going on with you?"

"Oh, that's fucking rich. It's not like you ever stuck around long enough to give it a try." He spits it out like he's throwing a blade, wants it to hurt, but Alex just sighs.

"I know," he says. "And I should never have left you alone after Caulfield." 

That sets off a cascade of emotions inside him, so many that he can't even identify them all and doesn't have a chance of dealing with any of them. Not that he wants to. He shoves everything down and settles for saying, "You didn't have a choice."

"Sure I did," Alex insists. "I could have stopped you. Made you tell me what was going on, or gone with you. You were a mess, probably not even safe to drive."

"It wouldn't have changed anything," Michael says. His head hurts, and his throat aches with how much he wants to walk away and drink himself into unconsciousness. "Noah would still be dead, Rosa would still be alive, and Max would be the way he is."

"Maybe," Alex says. He turns back to the monitors, and Michael can see a muscle in his jaw tense and release, tense and release. "Maybe not. But at least I would have been with you."

Michael takes a breath to say something, anything—

"Hey, come take a look at this!"

He can't decide if he's glad or furious that Valenti's interrupting them. Maybe both. But whatever it is, he'll take it, if it'll help Max.

He and Alex crowd around the table where Liz and Valenti have spread out papers and a few photos. "Is it K-32?"

Liz points to one of the photos, a shot of a prisoner standing alone in a cell. "Yes, that's him. We've been through the basic medical records, and there wasn't much useful information in there. But then we found these tests."

Valenti takes over the narration. "They started giving him a series of shots: once a week at first, eventually ramping up to twice a day. We think they were trying to find a way to enhance his healing powers. They actually ran the tests on several different prisoners, but it didn't work on most of them."

"But it worked on this guy?" Michael says, trying to fight down the surge of excitement ballooning through him.

"To a limited extent. Not enough to heal Max, unfortunately. Hold on, Michael," Liz says, holding up a hand as Michael inhales sharply, ready to trash the entire bunker. "There was another experiment, abandoned halfway through when they decided to focus on other projects."

"If it wasn't a weapon, it wasn't a priority," Alex says, and for a moment, Michael can only see him as a military man, part of a family that's brought him unbearable pain. He struggles to remind himself that they've caused Alex plenty of pain too. In a way, it was easier before Max healed his hand. The scars reminded him that he was once important enough to Alex to be used against him.

Valenti pulls out another picture from the pile. "Now look at this one."

A crowded cell. A prisoner lying on one of those pathetic cement slabs they'd had for beds. He can't see the prisoner's face. It could be his mother. He doesn't know. He doesn't want to know. He needs to know. It doesn't matter. He thinks he's trembling.

Next to him, Liz puts a gentle hand on his back. He doesn't look at her, but it helps.

"Two other aliens?" Alex asks. "It looks like—they're using their powers at the same time? On the third?"

"We think this may be the answer," Valenti says. "Two people, both trying to heal a third one, and all three of them on this…power enhancer, for lack of a better term."

Michael straightens up, the sudden burst of adrenaline blazing through him. "Me and Iz?"

"We have to try and reproduce the chemical formula, see if we can adapt it to your particular systems and powers," Liz cautions him. "We definitely know a lot more about the three of you than we did when Isobel got sick, but it's going to take a lot of trial and error before we're even ready to make an attempt."

"It's still something. It's more than we had before." Michael looks at the three of them. He's still trembling, but at least now it's partly from hope. "Thank you."

*

He helps Liz and Valenti pack everything up, sorting out the records they need to take with them from the rest of the crap. It's better than just standing by while they do the work, even though he wonders with every file he touches—is this the one? Is this his mother's? Or does it belong to some other relative he never got to know, not even for those few seconds he had with her?

After they leave, he sinks down into the closest chair. It's closer to a collapse than a controlled descent. He feels hollowed out again, the same way he did after they got Max into the pod. The sudden swerves from anger to despair to hope to fear to gratitude—it's exhausting, and he's already running on fumes. Has been for months. He rubs at his temples, taking a few deep breaths to try and fill himself up.

He jumps a little when Alex sits down next to him, having forgotten for a moment that he was still there. "You okay?"

"Sure," Michael says. "I'm gonna go tell Iz what they found." Moving is better than staying still, and Iz will appreciate knowing that the docs are working on something new.

And if Alex tries to comfort or reach out to him, he doesn't know if he can stop himself from taking it. So he stands quickly. Tries to keep it light. "Thanks again, man."

"Guerin." Alex stops in mid-breath, looks down for a second, then pins him in place with a word. "Michael. I'll always care about you, you know. No matter what. Even if we're not together."

For a second, he wants it. For a few seconds more, he imagines having it. Alex in his arms again, burning bright despite his best efforts to tamp himself down and fit into boxes other people designed for him.

He has to laugh at himself. He'd actually thought he could do this. He'd thought he could get through it without tearing himself apart over Alex again. Smart enough to reconstruct half a spaceship from wreckage, but stupid enough to make the same mistakes over and over again.

He does the only thing he can, and leaves without another word.


	4. a rule

Max wakes up. He's okay.

Isobel starts to recover from what Noah did to her. She's getting better.

Michael has fun with Maria. He smiles, even laughs.

He wants it to be enough. It's not.

And Maria's too smart to let it stay like that.

"I broke a rule," she says, bracelets jangling as she pours each of them a shot. "Mama DeLuca told me to never get involved with a regular. 'If they show up to drink that often, there's a reason,' she said. But did I listen? No."

It probably should have been a warning that so much of their relationship, both pre-romance and during it, took place over alcohol. If the conversation ever faltered, pour another drink. Not that they'd had much time for conversation, between her running the Wild Pony and him trying to save Max and keep his job at the same time.

Still, they'd tried. Movies at the drive-in, quiet nights at her place, even nice dinners out a couple of times. Talked about her mother, his childhood. She'd held a grudge about the alien thing for a while—not the fact that they'd kept it a secret, but that Liz and Kyle and Alex had known, and she hadn't. But she'd been there for Liz while Max was in the pod, and they'd worked it out. She and Isobel could even hold a conversation now, which was something to see.

When she'd found out about Rosa, though, that had been a hell of a fight. It helped that Rosa was alive again, and at least pretending to understand why they'd covered up her death. He and Max and Isobel—they'd been three scared kids in an unimaginable situation, and they'd made a terrible decision. But Maria had always been more protective of her friends than of herself, and he wasn't sure she'd ever really let go of that anger.

"Guerin? Earth to Guerin?" She waves her fingers in his line of sight.

"Very funny," he says, taking the shot and tipping it back, letting the burn slide down his throat and the vapors breathe through him. "High quality alien humor. Look, DeLuca, I don't know what you want me to say."

"Say anything. I told you that this relationship wasn't going anywhere, and you just shrugged."

"Does it have to 'go somewhere?' Can't 'it' just be what 'it' is?" His sarcastic air quotes are not going to improve her mood, but come on.

She scowls at him from across the bar. "I hate that we're having the most cliched conversation ever, but yeah, I need this to go somewhere."

As soon as they'd walked in, she'd headed behind the bar, leaving him on the other side, propped up on a stool, separated the way they'd been so many times. He wonders if the positioning was intentional or just habit.

"Sorry to disappoint, but I don't really have a letterman jacket to give you."

"Don't do that, Guerin. Don't try and pull that shit on me now. I know you better than that."

That always was the problem with letting people get to know you. They learned to see through your bullshit.

She pours another shot for each of them. He hopes the tequila keeps flowing as long as the conversation does. "I know there's a lot you don't talk to me about. Things that happened to you when Noah escaped and Max died."

After Max came back, Michael had finally told Isobel about his mother, because Max already knew. Max loved them both, but sometimes it was hard to be around him, with his love for Liz radiating out of him like sunlight. Michael and Isobel had their damage in common now.

She'd talked a little about Noah. How she wasn't sure if she could let someone get close to her again, how she sometimes flinched away when people tried to touch her. He'd described that brief, eternal moment with his mother, the way she had smiled at him, how he'd felt like a whole person for a few seconds. He'd hated himself for making Isobel cry, but she'd held on to him so tight, and they'd cried together.

"I didn't want us to be about that," he said to Maria. "I wanted this to be the part of my life where I didn't have to deal with that shit."

"Am I supposed to keep quiet about my mother? My money troubles?"

"Of course not," Michael protested. "You know you can tell me about whatever you want."

"Then why can't you tell me about whatever gives you those nightmares? You wake up shaking."

He frowns down at the bar, knowing he's already lost the argument. They're in a tailspin, and this is just the prelude to the crash. "I just—I can't."

She nods at him. He expects to see hurt or anger on her face, but there's compassion instead, and that's worse. "Could you tell Alex?"

Alex is—Alex is a tangled knot of feelings inside him, all of them running so deep that tugging on any strand pulls the whole thing taut. Everything is wrapped up in guilt and love and anger and lust and fear.

"C'mon, DeLuca, that's not fair. You know Alex and I are over. I haven't even seen him since Max came back."

"I know," she says. "I'm not accusing you of anything."

She reaches out then and lays her hand over his. He made her one of those bracelets. Used his telekinesis to bend the metal and shape it into curves and curls. With his other hand, he traces its lines along her wrist, like he's done a hundred times before.

"Oh, Michael," she sighs. "You're actually kind of sweet, as much as you try to hide it. We had some fun. And god knows the sex was good." He opens his mouth to make some smartass remark, and she holds up a hand to stop him. "Uh-uh. I'm talking."

He slips his finger off the bracelet and presses it against his mouth, as if he's shushing himself. He can let her talk. It's too late to stop what's happening, anyway. There's nothing he can say that will make a difference.

There's a sheen of tears in her eyes. She's still so beautiful. "I don't want to just be some 'part of your life'. If you only let me share the easy stuff, what's the point? Maybe I was what you needed for a while. But I'm done being your hiding place. I deserve better than that."

"Yeah," he breathes. It hurts. She's right, she does deserve better. But it hurts like a rejection. Just another person turning away from him because he's not enough. Not worth sticking around for. Not what she needs. "But I still get to drink for free, right?"

"Fuck you, Guerin," she says without heat. "I'll open a tab for you."

He picks his hat up from the bar and settles it on his head. It's the closest he's got to armor. "Might do my drinking somewhere else for a while."

"Look, about Alex…"

He shakes his head to cut her off. "Sometimes stuff doesn't end clean. We've got a lot of history. That doesn't mean we're any good for each other."

"That's between you and him," she says, back to dispensing advice from behind the bar. "But you deserve to be happy too, you know. So does Alex. And if you can do that for each other, then quit wasting time. We're not getting any younger."


	5. a bad habit

He sees Alex's SUV in the distance, the trail of dust rising in its wake in the late afternoon light, and that gives him time to prepare before Alex pulls up in front of the trailer. Michael clamps down on the flare of emotions and watches as Alex exits the car, circles it, and pulls a box from the passenger seat.

"Do you ever do anything out here besides sit and drink?" Alex says in lieu of a greeting, gesturing at the assembly of half-broken chairs and assorted junk.

"Hey, you're talking about my living room." Just to be obnoxious, he reaches into the cooler and pulls out another beer. It's only his second, but Alex doesn't have to know that. "What are you doing here?"

"I have something for you." He props the box on the fire pit in front of Michael and flips open the cardboard flaps.

Michael levers himself up out of the chair, seeing nothing besides the glitter of a console piece. A big one. "Where the hell did you get this?"

"It was hidden in Jim Valenti's cabin."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. I found it months ago. I think maybe he took it from Caulfield."

Michael turns the piece over in his hands, iridescence flaring under his touch. A few months ago, he might have been mad at Alex for keeping this from him—furious, even. Now, so much shit has gone down, he's not even sure how to react. With Max back and Isobel doing better, he could consider leaving. But he'd pushed the console out of his mind, and it's hard to wrap his head around it again.

"I'm sorry," Alex says. "I should have given it to you as soon as you showed me what you were building. I just couldn't—I needed time to think about it."

Michael nods slowly. "And you've done your thinking?"

"About a lot of stuff." Alex rushes the next sentence out, as if he's unwilling to let Michael linger on what he'd just said. "I used it to decode the letters Jim Valenti left behind. That's what led us to Caulfield." He huffs out an unamused laugh. "I don't know if that's a good thing or not."

Fire. Screams. His mother, stretched so thin that he almost expected light to shine through her. He lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. "Me either."

Michael searches for a distraction, anything. He sets the console piece down, and the box isn't empty. There are stacks of papers, a couple of thumb drives rattling around the bottom. "Did you find blueprints for the ship too? Maybe a user manual?"

Alex looks down at the ground for a moment. It's one of his favorite ways to cloak his expression, and Michael's seen the maneuver countless times.

"I went through all of the stuff we got from Caulfield again. The medical records, footage, threat assessments, daily logs. Decrypted a few more files I thought were unrecoverable. Anything I thought was useful, I put in the box. The thumb drives have scanned copies of everything that wasn't already electronic."

"Why?" Michael asks. He stares at the box, almost unable to comprehend what Alex is giving him.

Alex shrugs, too studied to look casual. "I thought it might be useful next time something happens, whatever that is. Liz always complains about not having enough information about your biology, not knowing if the three of you are 'normal' for your people. Now she's got something to compare her observations with."

Michael picks up a thumb drive, feels the edges with his fingers. Such a small thing, to contain so many lives.

"And, uh," Alex continues, tentative in a way he almost never is with Michael. "You may not want this. But I got footage of your mother. Nothing—nothing bad. Sitting in her cell by herself, or in a cell with another alien. This way, you can at least see her the way she was."

He tries to breathe through the clench in his chest. Where there was nothing, less than nothing, there's the sudden possibility of having his mother again. It's only a tiny fraction of what he could have had, but it's more than what Caulfield—and Jesse Manes—left him with.

When Michael can't speak, Alex keeps going. "I know it almost killed you to find your mother and lose her like that. But Michael—she died, knowing you survived and grew up, and she got one last chance to tell you that she loved you. You were the last thing she saw."

"Oh, fuck you," Michael mumbles, wiping his hand across his eyes. "I am so fucking tired of crying."

Alex turns away a little, gives him a minute to get himself back together.

"I…" Michael swallows and tries again. "Thanks. This is...um. Thank you."

"Yeah," Alex says, looking back at him. "It's kind of the least I could do."

"It's not your fault." It's taken him a lot of pain to get here. Truth doesn't make things okay, not on its own. But as many times as Alex has walked away from him, he's finally starting to understand. It's the hardest equation he's ever had to solve: truth plus time, multiplied by regret, equals what? Accepting what he always knew was true.

Alex shakes his head, shifting his weight from side to side. Dust scuffs up under his feet. "It's not that simple."

"About this? Yes, it is." Michael sinks back down into the rusty lawn chair. "You didn't put aliens in prison. You didn't experiment on them. You didn't rig the entire building to blow if there was the slightest chance of one escaping."

"My family has. For seventy years."

"That's on them. Not you." His discarded beer has warmed up, but Michael picks it up and finishes it in three long swallows.

Alex's stance collapses, and he drops into a chair across from Michael, so hard that it skids back a little. "My dad's done so much to hurt you. I hate thinking about it."

"Hate him. He's the one who deserves it."

"I do," Alex says. "Sometimes I worry that it's the only thing I really feel."

"You're more than that. You know you are."

Alex shakes his head, a half-smile on his face. "How are you like this? How is it that every time you should just—shut down, you open up instead?"

Michael shrugs and offers the only answer he has. "It's easy when it's you."

The half-smile fades, and Alex looks at him, the same way he's been looking since they were kids too stupid to realize what they had. Only for a few seconds, like he can't bear to stare at Michael any longer than that. The way Michael looks at the stars when he stumbles drunk out of his trailer at four in the morning, angry and longing and sad, unable to give up that slight bit of hope that just won't die.

"I, um. I heard about you and Maria." Alex stumbles over the words a little, like he'd practiced and still not managed to get them out right.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Alex meets his gaze again, this time straight on, no deflection. "I'm sorry."

Michael's first instinct is to lash out, to mock. But maybe it's true. Maybe they've finally made it to that point. Instead, he just shrugs.

"She deserved better than my sorry ass."

Alex shakes his head. "She—you both deserve to be happy. I'm sorry it didn't work out."

And now they're at a stalemate. Alex is sorry. Michael is sorry. They're a sorry pair, sitting in rusty chairs, surrounded by broken things.

"I love you," Alex says, and Michael goes numb.

"What?"

Alex clears his throat, like the problem was that Michael didn't hear him. "I love—"

Michael cuts him off, sensation slamming back into him in a sickening rush. "Are you fucking kidding me? Now?"

"I was going to tell you when I came to your trailer that night, but my timing sucked. It was probably the worst possible moment for me to realize—to admit—" He's pushing the words out, trying to make himself clear, but Michael doesn't have a lot of patience.

"For years, every time you looked at me," Michael snaps, "I was there for whatever you wanted. And then you always turned around and walked away."

"I know," Alex says, picking at the flaking paint on the arm of his chair.

Michael lurches out of his chair, unable to sit still any longer. He needs the furious motion. "I gave you everything! I showed you the console! All of my research! Even after you told me that your dad was behind all of it."

"I know!" Alex yells back, but he stays seated, looking up at Michael, ceding the high ground. "I did a lot of things wrong. If I could change them, I would."

"Yeah, well, you can't. You can't change the last ten years. And it's too late." All around them, windows and metal rattle ominously, with Michael at the epicenter of the disturbance. He can feel it radiating from him, and he doesn't care. 

In a blink, Alex is standing in front of him. "You are so full of shit."

"Excuse me?"

"All these years, telling me that all I did was walk away from you, and the first time I'm here, saying that I want this, want you, you're too much of a coward to say yes."

The accusation hits Michael like a blow, and he wants to punch back, lash out and make Alex hurt like he's hurting. That raw wound in the center of him hasn't begun to scab over yet, that place where his mother should be, where Max and Isobel should have been all his life. And Alex scored a direct hit on it.

"You left me! You left me behind." He reaches out to shove Alex away, fists his hands in Alex's shirt, but Alex grabs his wrists, and he can't do it. They've been pushed apart too many times. He can't bear to make it happen again.

They stand there, holding on to each other, and Alex relaxes his grasp until it's a gentle touch, just his thumb and index finger around Michael's wrists. Though he's still got fabric clenched in his fists, Michael's far more aware of where the backs of his fingers press against Alex's chest.

It's only ever taken the slightest touch for them to lose their minds and forget all of the reasons why it's a bad idea.

"Goddamnit, Alex," he says, dropping his hands in resignation and breaking Alex's hold. "I can't do this again. I can't."

"I love you," Alex says again, quietly, each repetition battering against the wall Michael's trying to hold up. It's clear that he's stopped expecting Michael to say it back.

"I know," Michael says. "I love you too. But it's not enough."

He sees Alex absorb that hit and swallow nervously. "What would be enough?"

What would that look like? Michael can't even envision it. There's no grand gesture that will heal them. They can't go back in time and make different choices. They can't pretend that Michael didn't go to Maria, that Alex didn't join the Air Force and leave Roswell, that Alex isn't skittish and controlling, that Michael isn't impulsive and convinced he's not worth anyone's effort.

Nothing will make moving forward any easier. Nothing but doing it, over and over again.

Alex must be able to see him weakening, because he takes another half-step closer and cups Michael's face with his hands. "How do I prove I won't leave you again?"

The need shoots through him at the touch of Alex's hand. Knowing it's coming doesn't make it any easier to ignore. He can't help leaning into it and letting it soothe the churning confusion inside him.

"Stay," Michael whispers, and takes a chance.

When he kisses Alex, Alex immediately grabs him by the hips and pulls him close, and for a minute, it's not even that sexual. They just press together, gently kissing, and Michael has to hold on to him, the solid muscle under his hand, the way that Alex's presence can settle him into something calm and quiet. 

But then Alex's fingers tighten and dig into him, and his mouth opens under Michael's, hungry and desperate. That defensive wall inside him crumbles, and he can't even remember why it seemed like a good idea.

They stumble toward the trailer, unwilling to stop kissing until Michael trips over a discarded hubcap and Alex almost falls. Michael reaches out with his mind to support and steady him. The smart thing to do would be to get inside, where there's a flat surface, but instead Alex pushes him onto the concrete pad and up against the trailer's closed door.

Alex's hands move constantly, smoothing down his sides, threading into his hair, guiding Michael's chin up and to the side so he can mouth at his throat. Michael wraps his arms around him and pulls him closer, closer, as if he could bring him close enough to satisfy the want taking over him.

The skin of his throat feels scratched and tender where Alex kisses and sucks at it, from his stubble and his sharp teeth. When they kiss again, Michael widens his stance a little and urges Alex to press his knee forward so Michael can grind against it. The pressure isn't nearly enough, no matter how hard he presses down, and he doesn't realize he's making a frustrated noise until Alex breaks the kiss.

"Shhh," Alex hushes him. "It's okay."

Alex spins him gently and guides him up the steps. The trailer is too warm, with the setting sun pouring through the windows, but there's no chance Michael's going to stop and pull down the blinds. Besides, Sanders is closed for the day, and it's not like Michael gets a lot of visitors. If Max or Isobel stops by without advance notice, they deserve what they get.

Alex's touch is urgent, focused on Michael like he's the only other thing that exists in the world. His tongue darts out to meet Michael's, over and over again, until Michael loses his patience and slides his tongue into Alex's mouth for Alex to moan around.

Michael grabs behind him for his shirt and hauls it off, then tugs Alex's stupid hoodie down his arms and off. Everything's better when they're pressed together, skin to skin, but Alex is always in layers or long sleeves these days. Armored against the world in any way he can find.

Their hands tangle on the hem of Alex's t-shirt, and then it's gone, and Michael lowers Alex down on the bed and stretches out over him. He leans on his elbows to kiss Alex, who somehow manages to work on Michael's belt at the same time. It only takes seconds, and then Alex slides his hand inside Michael's jeans and underwear. They're both starting to sweat, but his fingers feel cool as they wrap around Michael's cock.

"Come on, let me," Alex says, murmuring against his mouth.

Michael doesn't want to stop kissing him, but after a few more moments, he lets Alex guide him onto his side. Alex pulls his jeans open all the way and gets a better grip on him, long fingers stroking up and down, slowly enough to drive Michael wild without getting him any closer to coming. It'd be easier if they had lube, or if Michael could manage to take his pants off, but that would mean stopping. And he doesn't want to stop.

Just when the drag of skin on skin starts to feel a bit too rough, Alex takes his hand out and holds it up in front of Michael's face. It takes him a second to catch on, but then he grabs it and brings it to his mouth, licking at the palm, sucking each finger into his mouth and getting it as wet as he can. Alex's dark eyes are fixed on his the whole time.

Yeah, wetter is definitely better, and it's not going to take much of anything to get him there. Not with Alex's other hand scratching lightly at his scalp, sending shivers through him. Not with the whispered encouragement, almost too soft, but loud enough that he can hear Alex saying how gorgeous he is, how much Alex wants him, how good he wants to make Michael feel.

It's too much. He can't—it's too much. He lunges forward to kiss Alex as he comes, shuddering into the cradle of his arm as sensation tears through him. Alex strokes him through it until Michael twitches under his touch, then grabs one of the shirts discarded on the bed and wipes his fingers.

"Alex," he starts to say, but Alex tugs on the open fly of his jeans.

"Get these off."

Easier said than done, but while he's taking his boots off, Alex is working on his shoes. Michael finishes stripping in time to help Alex work his pants over his prosthetic. He rests his hand on Alex's right knee and looks questioningly at him, but Alex shakes his head and says "Later."

What this seems to mean is that Alex doesn't want to have to worry about his balance while he kneels over Michael and takes his cock in his mouth. He's still sensitive, and the slow licks almost hurt, but then quickly move past that into pleasure, and it's like he hasn't come already. He's hard so quickly, and Alex's hot, wet mouth takes him in deeper and deeper.

"Alex, oh my god," he says, and Alex fumbles for his hand without looking and laces their fingers together. He's starting to get the idea that Alex is on a mission. Maybe he should resent it, because he knows they can't fuck their problems out of existence. But he can't pretend it's not working. Some of those broken places inside him are filling up with each kiss, each caress.

Alex has always known how to make him feel seen. The problems come when Alex stops looking.

With one hand steadying the base of Michael's cock, Alex lets go of Michael's hand and stretches up to grab the lube.

"Okay?" he asks.

Michael takes it from him, flips open the cap, and drizzles it over Alex's fingers. The first time they did this—god, in the back of Michael's truck, when Alex finally came home on leave. He'd found out where Michael was working his second job as a busboy, and waited outside until Michael got off at midnight. The shock at seeing him, the anger over their unresolved issues—it all evaporated in the face of Alex's sad smile.

He hadn't expected it to be a big deal. He hadn't known how it would feel to have Alex inside him, head dropped down on Michael's shoulder, panting breaths humid on his skin. Like they fit together. Like he'd been missing a part of himself and never noticed.

Alex has two fingers in him and his mouth back on Michael's cock. Michael arches up, muscles knotting as he grabs the sheet in his fist. He's not close enough, Michael needs him closer. He spreads his legs wider and urges Alex up with a tug on his wrist. Alex moves up to kiss him, but leaves his fingers inside Michael as he sighs into Michael's mouth, and this is why they always end up back here. Because no matter what Alex says or how many times he leaves Michael behind, he can't hide how he feels when they kiss.

Michael grabs the condom so Alex can keep fingering him for a few more seconds. He tears it open, and Alex rests his forehead against Michael's while he slowly works his fingers out. Then he sits back on his heels to roll the condom on and get his arms under Michael's knees.

The slow and steady push of Alex's cock is exactly what he needs. Everything goes quiet and still, and Alex is the only thing left in his world. Alex leans forward, pushing Michael's legs up and back until he's as far inside as he can get. Michael wraps his legs around Alex to hold him tight and close, grabs at his shoulders until he can pull Alex down and kiss him, even though it bends his legs further back than is comfortable.

Alex kisses him back until a shift of his hips has Michael gasping. He smiles against Michael's mouth and lifts up, planting his hands on either side of Michael's head. And he starts to move. He responds to the slightest noise Michael makes, the briefest expression that flickers across his face. He adjusts the angle, thrusts a little harder, a little slower, until every motion is just what Michael needs.

But it's not what he wants. He doesn't want to be worshipped like some unattainable object. That's not what they are to each other.

"You too, come on." He touches Alex's face and waits until Alex stops and meets his gaze. Then, with a hand on the small of Alex's back, he guides him to start moving faster until Alex loses that look of concentration. There, that's the face he knows—eyes closed, mouth slack, chasing mindless, overwhelming pleasure.

And fuck, it's still so good for Michael. The hard, fast strokes make him feel like he's burning up, blood throbbing in his cock until he has to wrap his hand around it. His knuckles brush against Alex's stomach, and Alex's eyes fly open.

"You gonna come?"

"Almost," Michael manages. "Can you wait? I want to come with your dick in me."

Alex's breathy laugh is pained. "Yeah, do it. Just hurry up."

The lube is discarded on the bed somewhere, and Michael flails his hand until he finds it. Once his hand is slick, wrapping it around his cock is almost a relief, except everything inside of him is drawing tighter until he feels like a guitar string about to snap. Alex finds that perfect angle and slams into him, and he cries out.

"Oh, fuck, right there, Alex, fuck me—"

He's finally there, in that place where he doesn't have to anticipate the next disaster or brace for impact, doesn't have to think at all. He doesn't want it to end, but he can't stop it, not with Alex staring down at him, everything there to see in his eyes—hunger, fear, and love— 

Michael comes over his hand and stomach, shaking through it as Alex keeps fucking him until he comes too, saying Michael's name over and over like it's the only word he knows.

***

Alex holds him, after. He hasn't shown any signs of heading for the door yet. Michael's prepared for it, but he's not dumb enough to open the door and kick Alex out.

Michael rests against his chest as Alex strokes through his hair. "You okay?"

Michael rolls one shoulder in a shrug. "Sure."

"I get the feeling that there's a lot you're not saying," Alex says after a few seconds.

Fine. They've got to talk, but he's not moving away from Alex until he has to. "How is this going to be any different than what we've done over and over?"

Alex tightens his arm around him. "You're part of my life, Michael. Part of me. It's easy to just say that things are going to be different, but I'm saying it. I want to be with you. I don't care who knows."

Under his ear, Alex's heart beats, as steady and measurable as the pulsars Michael knows are out there in the galaxy. Even though he can't see them. He doesn't have any equipment strong enough to detect them, so he just has to take it on faith.

He's got two pretty simple choices. Trust Alex, or don't. Try, or give up. And maybe, when it comes down to it, Michael's just too fucking stubborn to give up.

"Okay," he says.

Alex presses a kiss to the top of his head, finding Michael's other hand and lacing their fingers together. "I'll be here in the morning. That'll be a good start."

Michael believes him. And when he wakes up the next day, and Alex smiles at him across the trailer's shitty mattress, he thinks maybe some of the broken places in both of them can start to heal.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Twitter as [@akaNestra](https://twitter.com/akaNestra) and Tumblr as [changingthingslikeleaves](https://changingthingslikeleaves.tumblr.com/).


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